Adventure in Paint

In Decwells on George’s Street
I traded my body
for a bucket of paint
because I had no money
and paint doesn’t want for things
or get hungry.

They were out of red
so I opted for crimson
and rolled out of the shop
avoiding collision
with pedestrian and pigeon.

I hadn’t a notion in my head
because I hadn’t a head
and the notions I had
were not notions
but crimson, liquid, dead.

Well I rolled to the offy
and the lad at the counter
must have felt sorry
for a solitary bucket
bumping despondently
against a crate of Karpackie,
and not a penny on him.

So he opened a bottle of the finest gin,
picked me up gently, cranked off my lid
and poured the spirit in.

Oh sweet goodness!
I burst a crimson grin,
left the poor lads face
a sunset of sin, and sticky.

Drunk as a bucket
I leapt from his grasp
like a poisonous frog, legless
but no longer aware of it,
the rainforest beckoning.

As lidless I rolled
my contents spilt out
covering pigeons and pavements
and shoes and bins
and cars and guards
and buildings and bridges
with the gloopy, primordial liquid
till town was coated
in drunken paint.

But nobody noticed,
cos by then it was 3
on a Saturday night.